


Doctor, Copper, Sailor, Corpse

by Scarlet



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-05-12
Updated: 2002-01-20
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet/pseuds/Scarlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This little piggy rots in his coffin, this little piggy is showing, this little piggy is a good partner, this little piggy is hovering, and all the little Hoover piggies are snickering all the way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Copper

**Author's Note:**

> Three independent vignettes, taking place respectively one month, two months, and three months after Mulder's burial.
> 
> SPOILERS: S8, Roadrunners/TINH/Dead Alive/Three Words.
> 
> GENRE: Angst/MSR.
> 
> TIMELINE: Scully was four months' pregnant at Mulder's burial. Because I say so. I'm not going to even try and make sense of the pregnancy arc.
> 
> THANKS: To Cat and Jules, for spot on and often hilarious beta.

I guess I could call in sick. After all, it would be the truth. I do feel sick.

Again.

Like every damn morning for the past five months.

Or I could leave a message on my answering machine: "Hello, this is Dana Scully, consider me abducted."

Nah. It would probably kill Skinner on the spot.

That's not funny.

Do I look like I'm having fun?

I check my expression in the mirror just to make sure.

Yeah, thought so.

I sigh, button up my shirt, exit the bathroom, grab my coat and head for the door.

Just another day at the office. Except that today, I can't hide it any more. And I did try, believe me.

As soon as I step out the elevator, they'll know. And the rumor mill will start grinding away.

Special Agent Scully, MD, has been well and truly knocked up.

Imagine that.

***

The elevator doors open and I brace myself. As I walk down the corridor, an eerie silence settles around me - the various conversations fading abruptly - as I feel dozens of stunned gazes settle on the visibly rounded outline of my stomach.

I keep my head up and walk.

An eternity later, I close the basement door behind me with undisguised relief and lean my hot forehead against the cool wood. Thank God, I've managed to reach my sanctuary without decking anybody. I could have blamed it on the hormones. The temptation still lingers.

Over the years, I've overheard many adjectives linked to my name, some flattering, some less so. I've been in turn the professional, level-headed, tough as nails, driven, short-tempered, bitchy and frigid Doctor Scully.

And I never minded, because even if I sometimes had doubts about the legitimacy of our assignments, I never, ever, had any doubts about the legitimacy of my position as a Special Agent within the FBI. Call it pride, call it what you like, but in my job at least, I knew what I was worth.

They might not have liked me, but they respected me. I may not have been one of the boys, but it was close enough - asexual enough.

Not any more.

Their hushed whispers followed me all the way down here. It isn't hard to guess what they were saying: "Look at that, Mrs. Spooky's pregnant." "I wonder who's the father?" "So they were doing it after all."

Let's face it, from now on I'm not an FBI agent in their eyes anymore. I'm the small redhead who got fucked - probably by her former partner.

My pregnancy now the stigma of my alleged sex life with Mulder... or Skinner... or the entire Quantico staff - depending on who's running the pool this week.

How ironic.

"You OK, Agent Scully?"

I turn round to find Doggett sitting behind Mulder's desk. I've given up dissuading him from doing so. It's not as if its owner is gonna turn up any time soon to claim it back - although I wouldn't put it past Mulder to come back from beyond the grave to haunt the nest he so lovingly feathered. Yes, I can have this kind of thought without blinking. Yes, I'm still in denial. It took me seven years to start believing in aliens, so cut me some slack.

I remove my coat and toss it on the hook.

"I'm fine, John." Huh, you don't change a winning formula.

"Somebody give you a hard time?"

I purse my lips and stare at him, my eyebrow twitching up. Mulder knew instinctively when not to push; Doggett is still learning to let go of the bone before his nose gets smacked.

Except that I don't feel like strangling him with his leash today. The man may be blunt but he's been steadfastly kind to me, and, what's more important, doesn't treat me like I'm suddenly made of bone china as Skinner does. Not that I blame my AD for doing so; in the past few months I've broken down in his arms too many times for him to see me any differently.

I take a chair and sit down in front of him, rubbing my hands over my stomach with a faint smile which probably comes out more like a wince. I lost the hang of it the day they closed Mulder's casket. His corpse wasn't the only thing that got buried that day.

"I think I just launched a new office pool," I tell Doggett.

He shrugs. "Let them talk."

"Like I have any choice in the matter," I sigh.

He taps his pen on his pad and leans back on his chair, watching me without blinking - the eyes of a cop assessing a suspect. I don't like it one bit.

"It isn't like you to worry about what people think."

"And you know me so well, Agent Doggett."

The sarcasm isn't lost on him. "I know enough."

My eyes settle on the filing cabinet behind him. Yes, I believe he does. Agent Doggett does his homework, you have to grant him that.

"And I know you don't give a shit about your reputation, or you wouldn't have stayed with the X-Files."

Or with Mulder, my mind supplies for him.

I wish I could tell him that he is wrong, that now that Mulder's shadow is no longer there to protect me I feel like an orange stripped of its rind, that their leers and stage whispers burn my skin raw like battery acid, that I feel very much like the sinful pregnant woman my body so extravagantly advertises.

I feel somehow that the privilege of 'not giving a shit' was suddenly taken away from me with Mulder's death.

I feel... illegitimate.

I lower my eyes, trying to ward off the sudden sting in my sinuses, cursing my erratic hormone levels.

I hear Doggett shift in his seat, followed by the clatter of a laptop being set on the desk. "I think you should go home, Agent Scully."

I raise my eyes, which are probably a little too bright right now, but I don't care. "And do what?" I snap.

My partner tilts his head to one side while his computer boots up. "Dunno, don't you have some wallpapering to do, a crib to put together or something?"

"Christ, you sound like my mother."

"Don't feel like it, huh?" His tone is soft, understanding.

I chew on my lip and avert my gaze. "Not really."

He remains silent for an unbearably long minute, and I don't dare look up knowing he's most likely still watching me. It unnerves me how transparent I can be to him at times like this. Mulder's clumsy, self-centered disregard for my feelings - which annoyed me on numerous occasions - might have been a blessing after all.

"I'm building a database, wanna help me?"

His voice makes me start and I draw a tremulous breath. "I beg your pardon?"

"A database - for the X-Files - " he turns his laptop towards me, "I've begun entering keywords to match them with case-file numbers, see?"

He stands up to open the filing cabinet and retrieves a large pile of files which he slams in front of me.

"So next time you ask me for 'mucus', I'll know where to look," he adds with a broad smile.

My eyes go wide. "But, but... it's gonna take ages," I stammer. "Do you have any idea how many hours of work this would represent?"

"Would you rather be knitting?"

The breath I'm drawing to reply catches in my throat.

"Would you?" he insists, inching forward on his seat to pin me with his uncompromising blue eyes.

I sigh and shake my head. "You're good."

In lieu of reply, a highlighter drops on the stack of files, right in front of me.

***

Mind-numbing work was just what I needed and the day went by quickly. At some point, the last pencil still stuck to the ceiling fell onto the floor with a weak little clatter and I had to excuse myself precipitately. I don't know if Doggett was fooled for an instant by my sudden bout of sickness, but when I came back the pencil was nowhere in sight.

He didn't comment.

Neither did I.

And we got back to work.


	2. Sailor

The knock at the door makes me jump up from the couch. For an instant a tiny spark of insane hope sticks low in my throat, but dies as quickly. You buried him two months ago, remember? And besides, he wouldn't knock at his own door.

I extricate myself from the warm cocoon of blankets to go and open the door. My feet hurt and I feel light-headed. I can't remember when I last ate.

Walter Skinner is standing on Mulder's doorstep, looking, well, tall. I should have put my shoes back on.

"Sir."

"I called you at home but you weren't there."

"I came to feed the fish."

He grunts and walks past me, not waiting to be invited in.

He halts in front of the aquarium, squints at it. He taps his finger lightly on the glass.

"They don't like that," I scold.

He stops tapping and straightens up to focus on me. Maybe I should have let him torment the fish a little while longer.

I go back to sit on the couch, wrapping my hands instinctively around my stomach.

"How many times did you come to feed them this week?"

I know what he's really asking. I play dumb. "Why?"

"You shouldn't feed them every day; it's bad for them."

My eyes dart around the room, looking for something interesting to stare at. Television: not turned on. Dusty National Geographics on the coffee table: know them by heart. The blanket by my side: ah. I wonder where Mulder got it. It looks native American. He's very fond of it - was fond of it - whatever.

"But the same doesn't apply to your diet, Dana."

I give him my most convincing 'You're-Still-Here?' look.

My AD gives a loud annoyed sigh, pushes his glasses up his nose and fumbles in his coat jacket for his cell phone. He starts dialing.

"What are you doing?"

"Is Chinese OK?"

Wait a fucking minute. "WHAT?"

"Food, Agent Scully. Stuff you put in your mouth and chew, remember?"

I rise from the couch, my temper barely held in check. "Skinner, you're crossing the line!"

He huffs. "See if I care." He turns his back from me, muttering into his phone.

That's it, I'm going home, sans Kung Pao chicken and definitely sans Skinner. I reach for my shoes.

He turns back towards me as I struggle with my boots with increasing irritation. I'm being let down by my own swollen feet. I could burst into tears if I weren't so angry.

"Dinner 'll be here in thirty minutes," he informs me calmly.

I give up trying to squeeze my feet in the unyielding leather, snatch my boots and my coat and make a beeline for the door - which I can't open because Skinner's hand is keeping it tightly shut.

I glare up at him, daring him to refuse to let me go.

"Enjoy your meal," I tell him coldly as I yank once more on the door-handle.

He doesn't budge.

"Damn it, Skinner!" I slam my hand on the door-frame.

He looms over me. "You're not leaving," he hisses between clenched teeth.

"Is that an order, *Sir*?"

Yeah, I can make that particular word sound exactly like 'asshole' - took me years of practice to get the tone just right. Mulder and I were given plenty of opportunity to practice in Kersh's office.

"If that's what it takes to make you look after yourself, then, yes, it is an order," he growls back.

I bristle. "I don't need you to monitor my health. I can take care of myself just fine without you."

His gaze travels up and down my body. "Just look at you. This isn't what I would call a successful attempt - it's not even close," he sneers.

"Who the HELL do you think you are?" I shout.

The apartment walls suddenly swirl around me, my back hits the door none too gently and I find myself held forcefully in Skinner's grasp, his fingers digging painfully into my biceps.

"I'M YOUR FUCKING FRIEND! AND YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT! AND I'M FUCKING SCARED YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO COPE WITH THE PREGNANCY. I'M FUCKING SCARED I'M GONNA END UP BEING THE ONE THROWING EARTH ON YOUR FUCKING COFFIN!" he yells into my face.

I freeze in his hold. I've never seen Skinner lose it like this before. I'm suddenly scared too, not because he's hurting me - which, by the way, he is - but because the anguish and fear etched on his face are pulling like magnets on the steel lid I'm keeping tightly shut over my own. Ghost smells of snow mixed with freshly dug earth and coffin varnish fill my nostrils; I feel the cold, cold skin of Mulder's neck, the stillness of his carotid artery under my fingertips as I search for a pulse which isn't there.

Cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck. I can't cope with this, not yet, it's too soon. Please. I need time, I can't... I can't...

God must have removed his ear-plugs for once because I go limp in Skinner's arms and gratefully pass out.

***

I wake up to see Skinner pacing back and forth in the apartment.

"Stop it, Walter, you're making me dizzy," I mumble from the couch.

He jumps and rushes to my side.

"Are you okay?" His hands are hovering over my face but he doesn't dare touch me.

I nod and shift to sit up. Skinner backs away slightly to give me some breathing space. He shifts on the balls of his feet, seemingly hesitant, and finally chooses to disappear into the kitchen. His absence is brief; I hear water running and see him come back holding a glass of water.

"You have one hell of a way of getting your point across," I rasp as he hands me the drink.

He backs away and collapses on the chair by the desk, running a hand over his smooth scalp. "I don't know what to say..." The man sounds positively stricken.

I look at him over my glass, raising an indulgent eyebrow. "Try 'I'm sorry I yelled at you'."

He shoots me a self-deprecating wince. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"Good. Now try: I will stop making wild assumptions based solely on appearances without having any relevant medical data to back them up."

His eyes narrow. I can see he's dying to argue the point, considering I just fainted in his arms, but he must also think he deserves some kind of penance because he complies, albeit grudgingly. "I will stop making wild assumptions, etc, etc..."

"I will stop hovering."

"I wasn't -"

I raise a warning finger. "Ah-ah."

He sighs through his nose like a bull. "I will stop hovering."

"I will give you a fifty percent pay rise."

He snorts. "Nice try."

I shrug. "You were doing so well."

We both fall silent. I set my glass on the table and sink back into the couch. Skinner turns his head to look through the window before letting his eyes fall on the desk. I see him pensively scratch with his thumbnail at something stuck in a groove. Time stretches and neither of us speaks. Unfortunately, we've never been very good at small talk, which is just what we would need right now to smooth things out and dispel the lingering tension between us. Each of us afraid to say the wrong thing for fear of hurting the other. We are becoming so good at this - the hurting part as well as the silent part.

The tiny object he's been worrying at with his thumb suddenly goes flying and bounces on the coffee table before skidding to a halt on the carpet.

We both look at it, still mute.

It's a sunflower seed.

His signature: 'Mulder was here'.

Was.

Was.

Was.

Oh God, how I miss him.

I feel a tear run down my cheek and I wipe it quickly before meeting Skinner's worried gaze. I swallow the painful lump in my throat and manage a choked chuckle.

"Those damn things get stuck everywhere."

Skinner makes a low, rough noise, stands up abruptly and marches towards the kitchen, scooping up the sunflower seed in his stride.

I hear the sound of the trash-can being opened and shut with more force than necessary.

He doesn't come back until the delivery man knocks at the door. I watch him pay the guy and grab the bags. He turns towards me, visibly ill-at-ease.

"Listen, you don't have to -"

"It's all right," I cut him, "I'll eat - but not here, okay?"

He nods and holds the door open with his foot. This time, I manage to put my boots on.

He takes me home.

We eat while watching the news.

We talk a little bit about politics and current affairs. Fumbling around the unfamiliar small talk, the safe subjects. We're trying so hard.

When the weather forecast appears, we look at each other and shake our heads with small, sad smiles. Discussing the weather is way out of our league.

He leaves.

I go to bed.

The baby moves.

I do not sleep.


	3. Corpse

US NAVAL HOSPITAL ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND.

When I raise my head from Mulder's chest, he's fallen asleep again.

I leave the room and wander along the deserted corridors, not caring where I'm going, just needing to keep my body in motion to be sure this is reality. The slight headache drumming behind my eyeballs is a pretty good hint that this isn't a dream, but I still have my doubts.

Once again, I'm afraid to believe. It's a Pavlovian reflex by now.

I find Doggett by the coffee machine. His face lights up with a kind smile when he sees me.

"Can I get you something, Agent Scully?"

"Same as you."

He frowns. "Isn't coffee supposed to be on your 'forbidden' list?"

"Give me a break, I'm celebrating." After dealing with dying bounty hunter fumes and slug-induced spine trauma, I figure the Uber-child can deal with a little caffeine.

He shakes his head but presses the 'latte' button.

"What, no espresso?"

He gives me a sideways 'don't-push-it' glance before handing me the paper cup.

I sit down awkwardly on one of the plastic chairs lining the hospital's walls. I'm not quite yet used to my new center of gravity.

I take a sip, burning my tongue slightly. It doesn't matter; it's so good, even in this weak, machine-generated state.

I close my eyes. God, I've missed this.

Mulder and real coffee, my two drugs, both bad for my health, both keeping me - sometimes against my will - in a state of wonderful yet often painful awareness. The withdrawal of the first one proved nearly lethal - six months of agonizing cold turkey.

And right now, I've got the both of them back.

I should be happy.

I am happy.

I just don't feel it.

I open my eyes to find Doggett in front of me, calmly sipping his own coffee. "So, how are you feeling?" he asks. I smile inwardly. Psychic abilities go with the X-File territory, it seems.

"I was just asking myself the same thing."

"Is that so?"

"Hmm-hmm," I take another sip of coffee, "and the answer is: happy, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Numb would be more accurate." I rotate my neck slightly, trying to get rid of the kinks accumulated there.

"I'm not surprised. You look dead on your feet. You should get some rest."

"I will."

"I've asked the nurse to install a cot in Mulder's room."

I stare up at him. He shrugs. "It was that, or take you home kicking and screaming."

I lift an eyebrow. "Hardly my style."

He pretends to look contrite, but the tease in his next words betrays him. "True - not simultaneously at any rate."

I try to glare, but I guess I'm not very convincing either, because he chuckles softly before continuing. "Anyway, I make a point of not struggling with pregnant women." He gestures towards the gun hidden under my jacket. "Especially, when said woman has a previous history of shooting her partner."

I shake my head, a faint smile curving my lips. "You know, it amazes me how well you know those files, Agent Doggett. I sometimes find it a little..."

"Spooky?"

I scowl pointedly. "Disturbing."

He shrugs. "It was part of my X-Files crash course. But hey, don't worry, I'll be as silent as - " He stops and winces.

"A grave?" I supply for him.

He runs his hand through his hair with a nervous gesture. "Bad choice of word, huh?"

I stand up to throw my cup in the trash can. As I walk past him I brush my hand over his shoulder and shake my head.

"Not anymore, John, not anymore."

***

A ray of sunshine wakes me up and I open my eyes to see Mulder lying on his side. Awake - and watching me.

"Mulder," I whisper, smiling up at him.

"Hey." His voice is all rocks and gravel, but I would still recognize it among thousands. I was so sure I'd never hear it again.

Right.

Right.

I need to concentrate on something... anything.

Ah. My bladder, for instance.

I shift to sit up on the cot and the thick blanket covering me slips to my knees.

Mulder's pupils dilate, two black holes staring at my stomach.

I go very still and wait.

And wait.

I wait for our eyes to meet, or a word, or a smile.

I get none of these.

After a while his eyelids drift shut.

He exhales a long sigh and shifts onto his back.

He doesn't say anything.

And I suddenly want to throw up.

Morning sickness is a convenient excuse. I stand up clumsily and head for the bathroom. When I come back, his slow and regular breathing tells me he's gone back to sleep.

And while, as a physician, I appreciate his need for rest, I can't help feeling as if I've been ditched once more.

Did I ever think it was gonna be easy from now on?

Yes, that was a rhetorical question.

***

Mulder wakes up in the late afternoon as I check the bandages around his ankles. He seems to be healing at light speed.

"Will I ever be able to chase liver-eating mutants again, Doc?"

I'm startled by his voice. "You're awake," I blurt out.

His smile is thin but genuine. "Well, it's hardly surprising with you poking at me like that -"

I walk around the bed and lean over him, running my fingers lightly through his unkempt hair. "I wasn't poking," I tell him softly.

"I don't mind, as long as you remember that I'm not one of your usual clients. I'm not in the mood for anything involving a Y-incision right now."

I stiffen and must have gone very pale because Mulder looks up at me in alarm.

"Scully?"

I shake my head, unable to speak. I feel him grab my wrist.

"Hey Scully, I was joking."

I dip my chin as my throat becomes metallic and stiff and painful. My breath hitches. "I know."

His grip tightens on my wrist. "Scully, look at me."

I do, reluctantly. When he's sure he's got my attention, he enunciates very slowly, as one would do with a panicked child: "I am not dead."

I bite my lip. "You were."

His hand falls back onto the bed and he blinks at me in astonishment.

"I was?"

I close my eyes briefly and take a deep breath. When I focus on him again, my voice is calm, toneless. "We buried you three months ago."

He's silent for a long time, chewing the inside of his cheek and staring at a point over my shoulder. Finally, his gaze locks with mine.

"I think you have one hell of a bedtime story to tell."

"It's 5 p.m., Mulder."

"And look at this," he gestures at his surroundings, "I'm in bed already."

He may be joking but his eyes are anxious. I sigh and pull a chair up to the bed. I just don't have the energy to argue with him. When I'm settled, I open my mouth to speak but he stops me.

"I want the whole truth, Scully."

"Have I ever given you anything else?" My voice comes out more harshly than I intended.

He has the good grace to look ashamed. "I mean, don't spare me anything. I can handle it."

I won't spare you, Mulder, but I might spare myself.

***

So I run through the events of the last 6 months and end up sounding as if I'm giving the outline of a field report to Skinner. Professional detachment is my security blanket and I tug at it until I'm wholly wrapped inside it.

I stick to the facts. Well, the ones related to his disappearance. (You were gone. Kersh launched a manhunt to find you. We found you dead. We buried you.)

I don't tell him I have a new partner. As far as he knows, 'we' means Skinner and me.

I don't tell him the X-Files have kept going without him.

I don't tell him about my difficult pregnancy, about the sleepless nights, about the insane hope following the encounter with Jeremiah Smith and the deep depression that followed.

And I'm safe in the knowledge that Skinner will keep his mouth shut about all the times he 'rescued' me - like that stormy night when he found me, soaked to the bone, rocking on a bench by the Reflecting Pool - my feeble excuse being that I wanted to see the lightning.

I must have been on a Mary Shelley trip.

What good would it do to tell him how many times I went nearly catatonic with grief, how many times I compulsively cleaned his place, while leaving mine in a chaos of scattered files and dirty laundry, how the sound of china shattering was never satisfying enough to alleviate my rage.

These are things I just can't voice - won't voice.

But maybe deep down I wish he would ask.

Would I be able to look at him straight in the eyes and tell him that I'm fine?

In any case, the point is moot. When I finally stop talking, he doesn't give any kind of acknowledgment. He just keeps staring blankly at the wall until his eyes finally close.

And I realize that although I can now see him and touch him, I haven't really found him yet.

***

Days go by.

Mulder spends most of his hospital time either asleep or staring at the opposite wall with such an empty gaze that he reminds me of Billy Miles in his old vegetable days. The few questions I ask him are answered distractedly and in monosyllabic fashion - when he answers at all.

So I wait.

I'm trying to be patient.

I'm trying to remain calm.

Yesterday I sent his medical chart flying across the room after I cut my finger flipping one of the pages too harshly.

Mulder woke up with a start as the clipboard hit the wall and for an instant I felt a vicious thrill of excitement. Maybe this was going to jolt him hard enough to make him finally acknowledge a few changes in the world around him, for example - I don't know - his partner's serious width issues in the waistline area?

Then I saw the disorientated fear in his eyes as he searched my face for reassurance.

I wanted to crawl into a corner and die of shame.

A mumbled "paper cut" was all I could manage as I stuck my index finger in my mouth and struggled down to my knees to gather the scattered papers hurriedly.

His worried voice hovered over me. "Scully? Is there anything wrong?"

"No, Mulder, everything is fine. Go back to sleep."

The taste of blood and lies was heavy on my tongue.

***

It happens out of the blue.

His hand closes on my wrist as I'm adjusting the flow regulator on his IV stand. I look down at him.

"I think there's a definite pattern here, Scully."

"A pattern? What pattern?" I have absolutely no idea what he is talking about.

He holds my gaze for one more second before lowering his eyes to my swollen stomach.

"Every time we're separated, you put on weight, G-woman."

Well, I guess this qualifies as an acknowledgment of sorts. I do a quick mental hopscotch, skipping between urges to burst into tears, laugh my head off or simply slap him.

In the end I settle for just being the Scully he expects me to be.

"I'm afraid Ben & Jerry are not to blame in this case, Mulder."

He smiles. I feel his thumb stroke the inside of my wrist.

"What about Walter & Skinner?"

"The dates don't match," I reply, poker faced.

He chuckles. "I'm so glad."

I pull my hand away, and fix him seriously.

"Are you, Mulder?"

He stares at me like a kid whose sandcastle has just been stepped on. I just ruined Ye Olde Mr. & Mrs. Spooky Banter. So familiar and safe.

And leading absolutely fucking nowhere.

He looks away and murmurs in a tone more suited for perfunctory Condolences: "I'm happy for you, Scully."

The tips of my fingers buzz with the urge to strangle him. I swear that at this very moment I would happily dig him a new grave and slam his coffin lid shut with the edge of my shovel.

As it turns out, the only thing I slam is the door on my way out.

***

When Mulder disappeared, I caught myself developing a serious case of split personality. I found many reasons to justify my doing so. If I could think like him I would find him, I would solve cases, I would still feel him close to me.

The day I began arguing with myself aloud in front of the mirror, I diagnosed myself as most likely only one step away from serious mental illness and decided to call it quits before I started rearranging my crotch in public or developed a liking for the tapes in his lower drawer.

Besides, I sucked at being Mulder. My mind just wouldn't work like his.

But I did try.

The day I took him back to his place, I tried once more to step into his shoes and be the sensitive, open and vulnerable one, naively thinking it would help us bond. Pregnancy made me feel more that way, anyhow.

I knew I had failed when Mulder served me with the "I'm happy for you" line one more time. I suddenly felt bad for every "I'm fine" I ever threw at him, as I got a taste of how it felt like to be on the receiving end of a metaphorical "No Trespassing" sign.

It dawned on me that I had made a terrible mistake. He was trying to find his bearings and this emotional Scully with her heart on her sleeve only managed to freak him out.

No wonder he didn't know where he fit in. There was nothing familiar in the new dynamic I was forcing upon him.

I was no Cinderella; his shoes had given me blisters - and that day, I bled all the way home.

***  
SCULLY'S APARTMENT 8.30 PM.

"Sorry, it's just me," Doggett tells me as I open my door.

I guess I must have "wrong partner" written all over my face.

I'm ashamed to make him feel like he's got to apologize for not being Mulder. I try to be civil.

"What can I do for you, Agent Doggett?"

"You didn't show up at work today. I just came to see how you were doing."

I step aside to let him in.

"I told Skinner I was taking a few days off. I assumed he'd let you know."

Doggett shrugs. "I must have missed his call." He gives me the once-over before adding, "But you're OK, aren't you?"

I smile at his concern. "Yeah, just little tired, that's all." I head for the kitchen. "Sit down, I'll get you a beer."

"You've got beers in the fridge?" he calls from the living room with mock horror.

I return and hand him a bottle. "They're not for me."

"Ah." Doggett takes a sip and lets his sharp cop's eyes inspect the room, most likely searching his surroundings for evidence of Mulder's presence.

He won't find any.

I haven't seen Mulder since the night he broke into the Federal Statistics Center. That was a week ago. He does leave short messages on my answer phone while I am at work - just to let me now he's OK - but he won't answer my calls.

I know he thinks I've somehow let him down on this case - or worse, worked against him.

Betrayed him.

At least his paranoia is something painfully familiar.

I sit down on the other end of the sofa with an audible sigh of relief. Doggett's gaze shifts towards my swollen ankles.

"Edema?" he asks, matter-of-factly.

I arch a surprised eyebrow but nod. Doggett reaches out behind him for a cushion and sets it on the coffee table in front of me.

"You need to raise your feet. Pressure on your pelvic veins is slowing down your circulation."

I must be gaping quite dramatically because my partner chuckles self-consciously. "Of course, I realize you already know that, being a doctor and all. It's just that my wife had the same problem when she was pregnant with Luke." His gaze quickly flutters away from mine, deftly avoiding any awkwardness the mention of his dead son would bring. I can relate with his need for privacy in such matters, so I dutifully follow his gaze to the open jar of olives resting on the table.

"And to make things worse, the baby likes salt," he comments with a sly grin.

"It certainly isn't coming from me. I tend to have a sweet tooth," I huff, easing my feet onto the proffered cushion. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. But seriously, you really should stop eating those."

"Yes, Doctor."

He relaxes back on the sofa with a long-suffering look. "Yeah, yeah, go ahead, make fun of me. But don't you go complainin' when the only thing you can wear is flip-flops."

I just smile at him. And as I do it suddenly strikes me that that these are the sort of small, easy moments I was hoping to share with Mulder, now that he's back.

Wrong partner.

The smile dies on my lips and I look away.

After a long time during which neither of us speaks, I hear Doggett shift on the couch and I feel a tentative hand on my shoulder. His voice is as cautious as his gesture.

"You wanna talk about it?"

I shake my head. "There's nothing to say."

His hand retreats but his voice is still soft when he asks, "Things are not turning out how you expected?" He hesitates. "With Mulder - I mean."

I slowly turn my head towards him. The look on my face is enough to make him raise both hands and add quickly: "Hey, listen, forget I asked, OK? I didn't come here to upset you."

"I'm fi -"

The sudden knock on the door makes us both jump. I struggle to my feet and head for the door. A quick look through the peep-hole confirms what I already know.

I open the door and stare at the tall unshaven man swaying in front of me.

Mulder.

A strong smell hits my nostrils.

Make that drunk-as-a-skunk Mulder.

***  
SCULLY'S APARTMENT 9 PM.

"Hey, partner," Mulder slurs, leaning his head against the doorjamb.

"Mulder, you're drunk."

He shoots me an inebriated toothy grin. "A very atus...astus...good observation, Agent Scully." His eyelids droop.

I'm too worried to laugh; he's still under medication, damn it! I pull his arm over my shoulder.

"Come on. Let's get you inside," I tell him gruffly.

He mumbles something unintelligible but agrees to lean upon me. After a few wobbly steps I feel a sudden resistance. I pull harder.

"Work with me Mulder, you know I can't carry you."

Mulder straightens up but refuses to move. I raise my head and follow his gaze towards Agent Doggett, who is approaching to help us.

Mulder removes his arm from my shoulders and steps unsteadily away from me.

"I see," he murmurs between clenched teeth. His voice has turned precise, cold, toneless.

I shoot a warning look to Doggett, who stops dead in his tracks.

"Mulder..." I reach out for his arm but he bats my hand away.

"Don't you touch me," he snarls, his bloodshot eyes still fixed on Doggett.

"Mulder, please calm down," I plead.

He turns the full force of his glare on me. "Surrogate partner and now surrogate father, Scully?"

"Mulder, this is ridiculous."

"Does he get to fuck you as well?"

"MULDER!"

"You're way out of line, Agent Mulder," Doggett growls, taking the remaining few steps towards us.

Undeterred by the threat, Mulder sizes him up, a vicious smirk playing on his lips. "Well, best of luck, buddy; she's got some serious control issues, you know?"

His wild gaze shifts back to me. "Tell me, Scully, do you allow him to make you come?"

I slap him - a gut reaction - I don't even have time to think about it.

Mulder stumbles backwards, more surprised than hurt.

He stares at me for a split second, eyes filled with something dark and tortured, then, with a cry of primal rage, charges head first into Doggett.

The two men wrestle to the floor. Mulder's motor co-ordination being impaired by alcohol, it's not long before Doggett manages to free himself, with a sharp blow to Mulder's solar plexus which sends his back slam against the wall. Doggett grabs my stunned partner by the collar, raising his fist once more to deliver a final blow.

"JOHN, NO!"

Doggett hesitates and throws me a glance over his shoulder.

"That's enough. Let go of him," I insist.

Doggett releases Mulder's shirt and steps back, fists still clenched at his side.

Mulder collapses on the floor, wheezing and coughing.

My medical training kicks in and I rush to kneel down by his side - making a mental checklist of all the complications the mixture of alcohol and his type of medication could provoke. Depressed respiratory function is high on my list.

"You OK?" I lay my palm on his sweaty brow and he nods without meeting my eyes, still struggling to get air into his lungs. I wait a few more minutes and his breathing slowly returns to normal. His pulse is still drumming under my fingertips but I don't think there is anything to worry about for now.

I look up at Doggett. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize for your partner being an asshole, Agent Scully."

I stand up to face him, choosing to ignore that last comment. "You can leave us now, John. I'll take it from here."

Doggett doesn't seem to like the idea. "And who's he going to hit next? You?"

I shake my head. "He would never do such a thing. I'll be fine."

He doesn't seem convinced but I hold his gaze steadily.

"Please." My tone makes it clear this isn't a request.

Doggett rolls his eyes then shrugs. "As you wish."

I accompany him to the door.

"The guy is a raving lunatic, you know that?" he tells me on the threshold.

"He's been through a lot."

"That's still no excuse for some of the things he said."

I sigh. "He was drunk."

Doggett shakes his head with a small smile. "No matter what I say, you'll always defend him, right?"

I don't even blink.

"Always."

***

"Scully?"

I start in the armchair at the sound of his voice. I must have dozed off. I check the clock on the bedside table: 7.30 a.m. Thank God I'm not working today; I feel exhausted, the baby seems heavier than usual and my spine is screaming for mercy.

After Doggett left last night, I half-carried, half-dragged an unresponsive and still very drunk Mulder to the bedroom and made him lie down in my bed.

I kept watch over him all night. He woke up several times to be sick. He must have drunk an awful lot - and the fact that he is still under some pretty strong antibiotics surely didn't help.

I stand up stiffly and approach the bed. Mulder looks at me through slit eyes, his face pale and clammy.

"How are you feeling?" I ask neutrally.

"Like I've got an entire SWAT team stomping in my skull," he rasps.

"Here, take these." I hand him two Tylenol and a glass of water.

I watch him swallow the tablets and take a few sips.

"Drink the whole glass, Mulder. You're dehydrated."

He casts me a brief sideways glance but does as he's told.

"How much did you drink last night?"

His brow creases. "I don't -" His eyes go wide as his mouth snaps shut.

During the night I wondered how much he would remember. I guess I have my answer now. Enough.

He lifts a hand to his face and rubs his cheek. "You slapped me," he whispers in a dreamy not-quite-there voice.

"And for very good reasons."

Silence.

"Scully -"

I know that tone. I stop him. "Mulder, it's too late for apologies."

He lowers his gaze and stares at the sheet covering him.

"However, there are a few things I would like you to force inside that scrambled brain of yours. Look at me, Mulder."

I guess he knows that tone too. It's a summons and I mean business. He looks up reluctantly, his jaw set. To an outsider his expression would seem blank, composed, calm even - but he can't fool me. I know a Mulder Panic Face when I see one. And this one is a fine specimen.

Tough.

I'm scared too, Mulder, but we're gonna have this talk right here and right now. I take a deep breath.

"First of all, you said you didn't know where you fitted in. Well, I'll tell you. Special Agent Fox Mulder, you may no longer be assigned to the X-Files but you haven't lost your job yet. You're still an FBI agent, there are still cases out there, madmen to chase, victims to help; and if you keep a low profile for a while, play your cards right and don't piss off too many members of the Bureau by acting like a self-righteous territorial Lazarus asshole you could still get reinstated within the X-Files division. You are still the person most qualified for the job, after all - they might not like it, but they know it."

"You mean, I get to kiss Kersh's ass."

"If the X-Files are still the most important thing to you and that's what it takes, then yes. Now shut up."

Mulder's smirks vanishes. He'd been relaxing slightly while I was talking about work but I can see the muscles in his shoulders resume their tension.

I am nowhere near finished and he knows it.

"Second of all, I know you're angry because I was assigned a new partner while you were gone, and you feel that you've been replaced somehow, that I betrayed you by accepting to work with him. But believe me, if Doggett hadn't been here, the Bureau would have shut down the X-Files. There was no way they were going to let me take care of it on my own - especially after they found out I was pregnant."

Mulder's eyes glaze over slightly at the word. I have noticed he's been avoiding looking at my midriff since he woke up. I swallow the needle piercing my throat and keep going. There is a tremor in my voice now but I can't help it.

"Keeping the X-Files running was the only way to find you, and John Doggett did his damnedest to help Skinner and I do just that. He's a loyal man and he's proven to me many times that he could be trusted. You owe him, Mulder. We both owe him."

I pause, bend over as much as I can, plant my fists firmly on the mattress and bring my face close to his.

"And for the record, Mulder, you're the only partner I ever fucked."

I straighten up, grab his hand and press it over my belly. "And this...is what happened."

I remove my hand and hold my breath.

Mulder's pupils swell like an ink stain on blotting paper but his hand doesn't move. I start breathing again and close my eyes - I can feel the heat of his hand seeping through my shirt, the exact outline of his fingers. My heartbeat rises like a spring tide, pounding against my eardrums.

Tears are gathering behind my eyelids. I open my eyes and they roll down my cheeks.

"I can't remember being much in control with you," I whisper.

Slowly, he pulls his hand away and slips out of bed. Through my tears the thick scar bisecting his chest looks even more jagged and distorted as he stands before me. I feel the cool trail of his fingertips as they graze my cheek and slide down to tip my chin up.

"No, you weren't." Emotion scrapes his voice like a wet pumice stone, "And neither was I."

His tender smile cannot hide the sadness in his eyes, nor the pained finality in his tone. And I suddenly realize that the kiss he's about to give me is intended to be the last one.

I step back. I won't let you do this, Mulder. It will take more than an inebriated insult regarding my sexual behavior to make me give up on you.

I know how you thrive on guilt - I know that most of the time, you lash out in the hope you'll get the punishment you think you deserve.

Which is why, over the years, I've had to learn to do the forgiving for the both of us.

I watch him lower his head and turn away from me. He retrieves the clothes I folded over a chair and without a word, starts getting dressed.

As far as he's concerned, this is over. I've finally rejected him.

Wait.

Oh God.

Now I get it.

Mulder got drunk on purpose.

He planned this.

He got drunk and came here to trigger an argument - never a difficult challenge where both of us are concerned, and certainly not after last week's events. He had hoped that, freed from his inhibitions, things would degenerate to the point where he would say something really hurtful and crass.

Something unforgivable.

***

"I won't let you kiss me goodbye, Mulder."

He doesn't look up as he puts his socks on.

"I understand."

"No, you don't. It's the goodbye part I object to."

He sighs and finally meets my eyes. "This isn't gonna work, Scully."

"How do you know? You haven't even tried!"

He stands up from the chair and marches towards me, temper rising.

"I can't be a father to your child!" he snaps, glaring down at me.

"Well, that's tough, because you are."

"Are you sure?"

I try to contain the anger in my voice. "Yes, I'm sure. I ran every test I could think of. The baby is human and healthy and has DNA from both of us."

"This doesn't prove anything! You were sterile, Scully, the insemination failed, and as for our DNA, it's probably available on E-bay by now."

I blink as he spells out my worst fears. I count to ten and take a deep breath. My voice is low and bruised when I speak.

"Even if you're right, if this baby was engineered to serve another conspiracy, it is still our child."

He takes hold of my shoulders and backs me up against the wall.

"I - cannot - protect - it," he growls between clenched teeth.

"Coward."

His fingers tighten on my shoulders until I can feel their pressure on my clavicles. "If you'd been where I've been for the past three months, you would be too," he spits.

"You were afraid of commitment long before this happened."

At the way his jaw tense, I know I just hit a nerve but he merely shakes his head. "This has nothing to do with fear of commitment, Scully. My presence is a danger to this child and you know it. If I stay, they'll use it against me. It will only be a matter of time."

"What about me, Mulder? What makes you so sure they're not going to use this baby against me as well? I'm your partner and I know as much as you do."

"In a few months, you'll have other priorities than looking for the truth, Scully. Don't delude yourself."

By now I'm so furious I am shaking under the iron grip of his hands.

"How dare you think I'm going to stop looking for answers and relax in blissful motherhood? Do you think I'm going to forget everything that happened, everything that's been done to me, once the baby is born? I may not look much like one at the moment but I'm still an FBI agent, and if you think I'm going to drop everything and start knitting booties then I think it's time you updated your obsolete Victorian values."

I bat his hands away and grab his upper arms, nails biting into his skin. He winces. Good. Right now I want to hurt him.

"So tell me, Mulder, what should I do when you're gone? Give this baby up for adoption to make sure that it's safe?"

As I say these words, I realize that - heartbreaking as it might be - this could be the wisest choice. I'd rather not see my child grow up than put his life at risk by keeping him with me.

Apparently Mulder has been following my train of thought. His eyes widen. "You can't be serious. This child is everything you ever wanted," he gasps, horrified.

My hands drop limply from his arms as my rage recedes with the speed of a well-staged burglary, leaving my head light with exhaustion and my hormone-laden body buzzing with the awareness of his proximity.

I don't say anything; I just look at him.

"I won't let you do this," he threatens.

"What do you care? You'll be gone," I reply in a tired, beaten voice.

He grabs my arms again with renewed fury, and for a second shakes me like a bully with a kitten.

"What is this, Scully? Blackmail?"

I lock my eyes with his. "I won't raise this child alone, Mulder."

He throws his head back and gives out a cry of pure frustration. "You're so GODDAMNED STUBBORN!"

His head tips back forward at a dizzying speed and suddenly he's kissing me. My lips part open under the pressure of his mouth - and as I jerk under the kiss - he claims my tongue with his own, holding my face between his hands, his thumbs bruising my temples.

And, God, I want him.

I take hold of his head and yank him closer, my nails catching in his hair, my fingers digging at his skull. The zipper of his jeans is scraping at my belly through an opening in my shirt. I close my teeth around his dueling tongue and he whimpers. He tastes of alcohol and blood and medication - bittersweet, like despair drowned in lime.

And then I'm naked, facing the wall, and he's behind me.

My sobs of pleasure warm the cool place where my cheek is pressed, as he moves hard and fast inside me. His lips burn the skin of my neck like the circles of Hell. His hands cover mine high above my head and I feel the sweat of our palms mingle and permeate the plaster.

I come with a strangled wail, my orgasm deep, sharp and slicing like a razor blade.

Mulder roars like a shot beast, hips slamming erratically against my backside a few more times before shuddering to a halt.

His hands leave mine and run down my arms, along my back, over my ribcage and settle over my stomach.

He holds me.

The baby kicks.

Mulder shivers and buries his face in my neck.

He's crying.

I turn around in his arms and push him towards the bed.

We lie down.

I hold him.

We sleep.


	4. Epilogue

SCULLY'S APARTMENT 15.00 PM.

"Promise me, Scully."

I smile at him over my cup of decaf'.

"I promise, Mulder."

"You do?"

I put my cup down and raise my hand. "Scout's honor, I will never go near the Gunmen's poker table."

He nods. "Good. I've seen how you gamble, Scully, and it's not pretty."

I look at him seriously. "When the stakes are high, I play to win."

He reaches for my hand over the kitchen table.

"You know I would love to let you win."

I link my fingers with his. "So let me. We can do this together. It is just a different kind of partnership, Mulder."

He sighs and removes his hand. "I'll think about it."

I stand up and leave the kitchen. It's raining outside and I watch the raindrops beat the windowpane for a long time before I hear him approaching. He wraps his arms around me and we both watch the gray clouds drift above the rooftops and the trees sway in the wind.

I feel him kiss the top of my head. "All right. I'll stay," he murmurs against my hair.

"How do I know you're not bluffing?" I ask the world outside.

"You don't."

THE END.


End file.
